


Worship

by ziparumpazoo



Category: Fringe
Genre: Blue Verse, Domesticity, F/M, Glasses, Kitchen Sex, Mornings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Battle, downtime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziparumpazoo/pseuds/ziparumpazoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's never considered himself a religious man.</p><p>  <i>[Sunday mornings, fireplace, Cabernet, end of the world]</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Worship

Peter's never considered himself a religious man - science can explain just about everything and most of what's left can be blamed on Walter - but Sunday mornings in the Bishop household are still reserved for worship.

He loves to watch Olivia sleep, especially in that space between dawn's thin shadows and morning's golden light when she's trying to hang on to just a few more minutes peace. But when she starts to get restless, when she rolls toward him with her eyes still closed and her forehead creased, he'll stroke her hair and kiss her brow until she sighs and tucks her head into his shoulder and her knee between his.

He's never quite sure the exact moment she wakes – sometimes it's while he's counting the freckles on her shoulders with his lips, sometimes it's not until her hips are pressed against him so tightly that he aches. They'll move together silently, legs tangled, heavy-limbed. He'll thrust into her slowly, guarding against the squeak of the old bedsprings and the creak of the worn floorboards, and then he'll hesitate before he leisurely withdraws, so he can revel in the glory of having her wrapped around him. She'll come sudden and hard and always with a gasp that sounds like she's surprised to find herself the subject of his adoration.

Olivia'd told him once, on the heels of a high-profile profile case that'd had Broyles holding her up as an example of the FBI's brightest and bravest, that she hated the attention of being put on a pedestal. That hadn't stopped Peter from hoisting her onto the kitchen counter while they were making breakfast. She'd been wearing one of his dress shirts with the sleeves rolled and the buttons open half way down. He'd nipped at her throat while she'd locked her ankles around his waist and her fingernails had bitten into his shoulders. The glassware had rattled in the cupboards like a freight train passing and Walter'd snored loudly from his bedroom next door.

It'd taken hours for the smell of burnt pancakes to clear.

The thing about Sunday mornings is that, if they're lucky and the phone doesn't ring with news of some new catastrophe, or the world isn't about to end, Sunday mornings lead into Sunday afternoons. Lazy Sunday afternoons, where if the weather is dreary, Peter'll build a fire in the fireplace and his father will decide that there's something at the lab that _absolutely_ demands his attention and will be out the door and gone before Peter manages to ask if he needs a ride.

It's on these rare and quiet afternoons that Olivia'll decide that the week's neglected chores can wait one more day and there's nowhere more important for her to be than curled up on the Bishop's sofa in front of the fire with a book in hand and glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. If Peter times it right, she's usually sprawled on top of him, and if his timing is bad, a glass of Cabernet will usually buy him a place beneath her where he can slips his hand under her shirt and rest his palm along her ribs so he can feel the steady rise and fall of her chest and the way her heart speeds up when his other hand brushes the side of her breast.

She likes to pretend that she's ignoring him, that she doesn't know what he's up to, and so it becomes a game of wills to see which one of them will break first. Sometimes he'll run his thumbnail across her nipple and pretend not to notice the hitch in her breathing. She'll retaliate a few minutes later by shifting her back against his chest and grinding her ass into his crotch then flip her book page and sip her wine without missing a beat, as if she hasn't noticed that he's grown hard against the small of her back.

He'll slide his hand under the waistband of her jeans, slip under the elastic of her underwear, and stroke his fingers along her delicate skin at the crease of her thigh, and if the muscles in her stomach tighten and her breathing becomes a little shaky, he'll pretend he doesn't notice.

It's always a game of wills. One that ends with Olivia reading a passage from _Principles of Forensic Pathology_ aloud, her voice halting, low and breathy, a half-hearted effort to distract him while she breaks around his fingers. Or it ends with Peter praying to every god imaginable that Walter doesn't choose that exact moment to come home because she's riding him there on the sofa, his jeans shoved down to his knees, her glasses slipping down her nose, and the book tossed carelessly aside. Either way, there are no losers in this game. It only makes him cherish her more for playing.

Sunday mornings have become a habit Peter finds himself incapable and unwilling to kick. The unintentional carry-over of the morning-after the night-before has become sacred, and he blames his conversion entirely on Olivia. 

Peter's never considered himself a religious man; he'd just never expected Olivia Dunham to turn him into the one of the devout.


End file.
